


Stitches

by ArtemisRayne



Series: May Look at a King - A Newsies Felisian AU [14]
Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Felisian, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Backstory, Bonding, Cat/Human Hybrids, Developing Friendships, Established Relationship, Felisian!Spot, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Past Character Death, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 13:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18477592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisRayne/pseuds/ArtemisRayne
Summary: Davey thought that growing up under the watchful eye of Nurse Esther was bad, but she's got nothing on the bossy supervision of one Spot Conlon, future M.D. However, as Spot bullies Davey into a check-up, he learns a little more about his boyfriend's older brother and maybe finds a new friend as well.





	Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings in the tags

Davey thought that growing up with the ever-watchful Nurse Esther was bad, his mother fussing over every scratch and sickness with all the thoroughness of someone who not only dealt with these things daily but had seen them all turn into something far more dangerous. It was worse for Davey than Sarah since he was the unnaturally long-limbed child who fell over himself for years until he grew into his lanky body. As much as it annoyed him, he got used to being harassed by his mother over each injury.

Surprisingly, the neverending mother-henning of Esther Jacobs doesn't even hold a candle to the overwhelming supervision of Spot Conlon, future M.D.

Davey digs out his key and lets himself into Jack's apartment, exhausted from a mind-numbing math class and looking forward to their typical Friday evening of dinner and Netflix. His head's pounding from more than just the confusing lecture and the thought of the accompanying pile of homework due Monday, and he desperately wants to just grab a Tylenol and relax. He steps inside, locking the door behind him, and shucks off his coat. "Jack?"

"Ain't here," Spot's low rumble comes from his bedroom. "Tones dragged him with to get groceries. Got a bakin' bug, so he's gonna be a while." Rubbing his eyes, Spot appears in the doorway, wearing only a pair of faded jeans. Davey blinks, surprised at actually being faced with the short man's musculature; compact and solid, Spot's torso looks a bit like a Bowflex commercial. Not that Davey's in any way interested, but he can objectively admit that it's impressive.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you up," Davey says, wincing. "I tried to keep my voice down." Not that it matters, really, since Spot's hearing is as good as Jack's and can hear even a normal speaking voice anywhere in the apartment.

Spot waves a hand flippantly. "S'fine, I was up," he responds. "Had a lecture this mornin'." His yellow eyes dart up to Davey, and the felisian suddenly frowns. "D'you bust a stitch?"

Davey instinctively touches the row of stitches that stretch from his temple to his jaw, cringing. It's stopped bleeding, but it's still a bit tender. "No, it's fine. Just caught someone's backpack with my face earlier," he admits. It had been a moment of horrible timing; right as Davey leaned down to dig a notebook from his bag, someone sat down at the desk beside him and swung their backpack around to drop it on the floor. "Think he had a cinder block in there or something," Davey jokes, shrugging.

Brow furrowed, Spot pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room. He grabs Davey's chin, despite the taller man's protests, and tips his head to examine the stitches. "Ya did," the felisian says, narrowing his eyes at Davey. "These two at the bottom pulled out." He rolls his eyes and nods toward the dining table. "Sit."

"I'm fine, really," Davey argues. "Besides, that part's almost healed up, it doesn't really matter."

"Sit," Spot repeats firmly in a tone that leaves no room for objections. As much as they get along, Davey can't deny that there's a little part of him that still gets intimidated by the older man. Davey sighs and slumps into a chair.

Spot nods approvingly and then heads for the bathroom. Davey's eyes widen when he sees the felisian's bared back - or more specifically, the large tattoo that dominates the back of his left shoulder blade, a badge of some kind with a black ribbon draped at a diagonal across it.

A minute later, Spot emerges from the bathroom with a small first aid kit and a washcloth in hand. He deposits the stuff on the table and pulls a chair around in front of Davey, turning it sideways to sit on it so his tail can hang over the back. "Don't matter if it's healin'," he lectures, holding up the washcloth and gesturing for Davey to turn his head. "Youse gonna make it heal slower if you go 'round poppin' stitches, not to mention gonna scar worse."

"You really don't have to do this," Davey says as the felisian carefully cleans around the wound. "I've got an appointment with the doctor next week already." Not that reminders like that have ever stopped Spot from giving him a quick check-up every few days to see how he's healing.

"Shaddup and hold still, wouldja?" Spot replies. "I'm just makin' sure you didn't bust it worse."

Davey huffs but lets the man continue his examination, recognizing that there's no getting out of it now. After a moment of silence, Davey clears his throat. "You've got a tattoo," he says conversationally.

Spot smirks. "So do you," he says, raising an eyebrow. It's a discovery he made after all-but-manhandling Davey to check the bruising on his ribs that first week back.

"Is it a cop badge?" Davey asks because he can tell that wasn't Spot brushing him off.

"Fire," the felisian answers. "My dad was FDNY." He picks up a small pair of tweezers and scissors, trimming one of the broken threads. "Died 9/11."

Davey winces. "I'm sorry," he says. Davey was barely two when the terrorist attack hit New York, but he's grown up hearing all about it and the terrible devastation it caused. He even went to visit the memorial at Ground Zero last semester, wanting to see the place for himself. But to actually lose someone in that is a horror Davey can't even imagine, and Spot would've been - Davey does the math in his head quickly - around seven or eight.

"He died a hero," Spot says resolutely. He digs out a suture kit - because of course Spot Conlon would be the sort of person to have those in his first aid kit - and tears the sterile package open with his teeth. "Wanted to be a firefighter too," Spot adds, and the comment surprises Davey. Spot isn't exactly notorious for being incredibly forthcoming or talking about his past much, especially without being prompted first. It's one of those things he and Jack have in common. "When I was a kid, ya know? Wanted to grow up and be a hero like my old man."

"But you became a doctor instead," Davey says curiously. "Why?"

Spot shrugs. "Grew up," he says. "Shush a sec so I can fix these." He holds up the curved needle, golden eyes narrowing in concentration. Davey sucks a sharp hiss in through his nose as the thread pulls through his skin and the felisian grimaces apologetically. There's a moment of silence, Davey focused on not flinching as Spot ties off the new stitches. "Was my ear, ach'lly," Spot says abruptly, and Davey glances at him from the corner of his eyes. "Why I decided to be a doctor, I mean." He cuts the thread and gives a nod, letting Davey know he's done.

Sitting back into the chair, Davey can't stop his gaze from drifting to the felisian's ears while Spot cleans up the kit. More than half of the right ear is missing, the slightly jagged plateau of what's left topped in gray and pink scarring where the fur has never completely grown back. No one's ever told him, and Davey's never asked, but he can guess that whatever took his ear off was unpleasant.

"Had a good doctor when it happened?" Davey asks, interested but not daring to pry into something potentially traumatic and private.

Spot smirks, baring his canines. "Ya can ask, Dave, I wouldn'a brought it up if it was secret," he says. Shaking his head, the felisian walks over to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of beer. He twists off the cap and flops back into the seat opposite Davey, leaning his shoulder into the back of the chair. "But yeah, that's why." Flitting his ears distractedly, Spot's gaze drifts passed Davey to the wall. "Did it to myself."

"You what?" Davey asks, startled and horrified.

"The ear," Spot elaborates. "Was a kid, a'most nine. My mom, she was real messed up when my dad died. Depressed, ya know, started drinkin' and stuff. Anyway, one day I hear her tellin' a friend she can't stand lookin' at me 'cause all she sees is my dad - I've a'ways looked just like him, same eyes and ears and everythin'. And my dumb kid-brain thinks if I can make myself look less like him, maybe she'll stop bein' sad. So I grab a knife from the kitchen and-" He trails off with a vague slicing gesture.

"Holy shit," Davey breathes, his stomach turning over.

Spot hums an agreement through his mouthful of beer. "Anyway, the doc thing - see, didn't cut all the way. Couldn't, ya know? Hurt like a bitch, didn't even get half through. Mom was freakin', too scared to take me to the hospital 'cause she dunno how to explain, scared they'll think she did it or somethin'. So she tries to stitch it back together herself."

Davey frowns. He's not a complete expert on felisian anatomy but there are a few things he knows and, "You can't just stitch an ear if it's been cut like that. All the muscles..."

"Yeah, tell me 'bout it," Spot says with a wry grin. "Thirty. Ya know that? Felisian ear got thirty muscles each. I managed to cut into twelve of 'em." Davey winces and feels faintly like he might be sick. "Never stopped hurtin', so bad I would throw up sometimes, and just got worse any time I moved it. Then one day I'm grabbin' some groceries for Mom on the way home from school, and this random old guy in the store stops me. Tells me he's a doctor and that ear looks like it hurts and can he look at it? And I hurt so damn much, I just sorta spilled everythin' at him.

"Doc stuck with me through everythin'. Got me to the hospital to get my ear checked - turns out it was infected too, s'why I was gettin' sick. Then they tried to fix it, but the muscles were too messed up by then, had ta' take it off. And he's there the whole time. Ain't even that he's workin', ain't my actual doctor, he's just _there_." He pauses, taking a long swallow from his beer with a thoughtful expression. "He told me once that's why he became a doctor, to be there for people when they're sick 'cause ain't that when folks need someone most? Guess that's the part that always stuck with me."

Davey sits back in his chair, considering everything about the story. It explains so much about Spot, somehow. Davey can also tell that this is significant, Spot telling him such a personal story. Licking his lips nervously, Davey says, "That's incredible. Someone just reaching out to a stranger because they can tell they need it."

"Doc was one'a the best guys I ever met," Spot agrees. "Dunno how much worse off I would'a been if he hadn'a stopped me in the store that day. Kept in touch, too. Even after I was all betta, after my mom," he pauses, clearing his throat, and starts over. "After I ended up in the system. Checked in, ya know, to make sure I was still okay. Was my lifeline through one'a the worst times of my life. And that's when I decided _that's_ the kinda person I wanted to be."

The intensity of the moment is enormous, Davey's chest squeezed in a vice by the open trust of Spot letting him in on something like this. As much as he said it wasn't a secret, Davey can tell this also isn't exactly a story he throws around a lot. It feels like acceptance, Spot bringing him into a close circle of people he trusts, and it steals Davey's breath. There's a moment of quiet, both of them wrapped in their own thoughts, and then Davey smiles. "Your bedside manner might need a little work," he teases lightly to break the tension.

Spot snorts, shooting a half-hearted glare at him over his beer bottle. "Gotta be a bit bossy when the littles don't listen," he replies. "I work in a kids' hospital and even most'a them don't whine s'much as you."

"I bet you're secretly a total softie, huh?" Davey says, grinning. "You act all tough and grumpy, but I bet you're super cute with the little kids."

"You got a smart mouth, ya know that?" Spot says, but he doesn't completely hide his smile. He stands and heads for the kitchen, digs a bag of frozen vegetables out of the freezer and wraps it in a dishtowel. "Here, put that on your face," he says. "Take down the swellin'." Then he grabs a little bottle of Tylenol from the first aid kit before shutting it. "And take a coupla those."

Davey presses the makeshift ice pack to his cheek, wincing as the chill cuts sharply through his tender skin. "Thanks," he says because even if Davey didn't ask for the help, he knows Spot's done him a favor. Although it's going to be weird explaining to his doctor how he got an extra pair of stitches since his last visit. 

Spot nods, acknowledging the comment. "And remind me when ya get all the stitches out, I know a couple tricks that help with scars," he adds. "Heal 'em up better, so they don't look so bad. Unless ya decide it makes ya look badass and wanna keep it, o'course."

Laughing, Davey nods gratefully. Spot gathers the kit and carries it back to the bathroom, while Davey grabs the bottle of Tylenol and hastily swallows a few dry. Migrating to the sofa, he curls up in his usual corner and holds the pack of frozen vegetable medley to his face. "How's the arm?" Spot asks when he reenters the room, dragging a tee over his head.

"Perfectly fine, I promise," Davey says with a smirk. Spot makes a noise that implies he's not entirely convinced but doesn't press it, and Davey knows it's a safe bet that he'll be getting another check-up sometime soon. The felisian sinks down on the other end of the sofa, wrapping his tail up around his side, and grabs the remote.

"Ya mind?" Spot asks even as he's already turning the tv on. Davey chuckles and waves a hand dismissively. It's not like he was going to argue anyway; it is Spot's apartment, after all. "Wanna get caught up on my show since I got the rest the day off." Spot scrolls to a show about medical mysteries, one of those shows where patients come in with unexplainable symptoms and the doctors scramble to figure out what obscure, impossible illness they've got.

"Don't you get enough of this at work?" Davey asks in amusement. "I'd think you wouldn't want to deal with more medical stuff at home."

Spot huffs a laugh. "Please, I never see this kinda stuff at work," he says. "It's all just busted bones or the flu or some kid stickin' Legos up his nose." Davey snorts a laugh at the last one, vividly remembering his mother's exasperated lecture when she carted Les to the hospital to remove a dime from his nostril. Shaking his head, Spot gestures to the tv. "These cases is one in a mil'. 'Sides, it's fun to see if I can guess what it is 'fore the end of the episode."

Davey can't help but smile at that; it's the same thing Davey does when he watches his murder mysteries and crime dramas, a habit that drives Jack crazy. Turns out he and Spot are more alike than Davey would've thought. Grinning, Davey settles down into his corner, nursing his sore cheek, and watches the bizarre medical drama with Spot.

(He's still there when Jack and Race get back from grocery shopping an hour later, Davey grilling Spot for details of how he could _possibly_ have guessed that guy had an exotic insect nesting in his brain stem.)

**Author's Note:**

> My sister is obsessed with those medical shows like "Untold Stories of the ER" and they creep me out so bad. I'm not a squeamish person but some of those episodes - *shudder*


End file.
